


Day 6: Superhero!Verse: Who is that masked man?

by lullabelle



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade AU Challenge [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Reporter Dean, Secret Identity, Smut, Superhero Castiel, this is really fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:29:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabelle/pseuds/lullabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a new, mysterious figure spending his evenings cleaning the scum off the streets of Garrison City. They call him the Angel. Dean calls him his next big story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 6: Superhero!Verse: Who is that masked man?

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by lightwelling.

Crowley pushes the manila folder back across his desk. “Old news, Winchester.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I said: Old. News,” Crowley repeats, drawing his words out slowly, as if he’s speaking to someone very simple.

Dean takes a deep breath. He doesn’t _want_ to yell at the man who is potentially about to pay him money. Yelling at one’s benefactor is generally a bad idea, but Dean doesn’t always let that stop him. “I was in this office less than a day ago, and _you_ told me to pursue this Avenging Angel story. Now I have done a _disgusting_ amount of leg work in a very short amount of time. And this, here --” Dean jabs a finger at the folder “-- is the story you asked for. Completed.”

“Ah, but you see,” Crowley says, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “The _story_ is no longer the story, because just a couple of hours ago your _Avenging Angel_ beat the unholy stuffing out of one Alistair Stambaugh, upright citizen, pillar of the community, and owner of this very paper.”

Dean snorts. “And what was Alistair doing?”

Crowley spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. “According to him, nothing at all. He was simply minding his own business when this masked menace to society descended on him out of nowhere and put him in traction. It was one thing when the Angel was simply sweeping some of the city’s detritus off the streets, but this latest attack changes everything. Clearly he’s unhinged.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He’d been aware of the Avenging Angel -- the mysterious masked man in a tan trench coat who’d been cleaning the Garrison City streets of its burglars, muggers, and rapists -- for weeks now, so he’d actually been pleased when Fergus Crowley asked him to chase the story. He’s spoken to enough people who have encountered the Angel to know that if he breaks any of Alistair Stambaugh’s bones, then they’re bones that deserved to be snapped.

Dean snatches his folder back. “I’ll take it to Naomi at the Garrison City Ledger.”

Crowley smirks, probably just pleased to be rid of him. “You do that, Cupcake.”

\---

Dean stomps his way through the offices to the elevator bank, scowling a warning at the man who moves to follow him through the doors. The guy takes the hint, stopping dead in his tracks, and even taking a step back to wait for the next one. Dean redirects his glare at the Daily Hound insignia on the opposite wall until the badly squeaking elevator finally lowers him out of eyeshot.

By the time he reaches the lobby, Dean’s deep in thought, planning out his pitch to Naomi Geraci at the Ledger.He doesn’t see the man standing by the elevator doors, holding a cardboard tray of dixie cups in one hand and several brown paper packages from the Chinese laundry tucked under his arm, until he’s already slammed into him.

“Shit!” Dean yells. The coffee spills more onto Dean’s unfortunate victim than it does onto Dean, and the packages all thud to the floor. “Oh man, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

The man -- who Dean’s seen before, Crowley’s assistant with the kind of strange name, Castle? Cassel? -- slowly pulls the tray of coffee away from where he’s caught it against his body to survey the damage. “I’m fine. It wasn’t really hot anymore. And look,” he holds up one dripping, partially crushed coffee lid between his thumb and forefinger, “only one real casualty.”

A glance at the tray tells Dean he’s right -- the other two cups still have their covers. The contents of the third, however, are all over the man’s shirt.

“I’m sorry. You’re Cas -- “

“Castiel. Milton. I’m Crowley’s personal assistant.” There’s a short, awkward pause before Castiel adds, “I’d shake your hand, but -- “ He flicks his hand away from them to demonstrate, coffee droplets flying off his fingertips.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m Dean -- “

“-- Winchester. You’re the freelancer who blew the lid off the Hook Man murders last year.”

Dean offers his most winning smile. He’s pleased that Castiel isn’t mad at him, and it always pays to have an ally close to the top. Castiel isn’t particularly hard on the eyes, either. “Guilty.”

“That was our most widely circulated paper that quarter. Why are you still freelancing? I’d have thought for sure Crowley would snap you up.”

That’s... something of a loaded question. Dean doesn’t particularly like being committed in that way. “Well, y’know, I’m a rambler, Cas. Guys like me, we aren’t meant to be tied down.”

Castiel stares back at Dean blankly until Dean begins to feel uncomfortable.

“Um. What I mean to say is, I think your boss is a dick.”

At that, Castiel’s lips quirk and he gives a little shrug. “He can be.” He gives the laundry packages on the ground a calculating look, like he’s trying to figure out how to get them back into position under his free arm. 

And even though Dean’s in a hurry, it’s still all his fault that Castiel’s drenched in coffee and Crowley’s laundry is on the floor. He says, “Let me grab those for you,” and hastily picks up the packages.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, sincerely. 

Hearing Castiel say his name is unexpectedly pleasant, so much so that Dean stammers a bit when he says, “Um, you’re welcome.”

Dean follows Castiel to the elevator, stepping to the side when the door opens so that the guy he’d intimidated into waiting for the next one a few minutes ago can scoot warily past him. The return to the Daily Hound offices near the top of the building isn’t awkward, exactly... Okay, maybe it’s a little awkward. Dean spends the entire ride up quietly studying the back of Castiel’s head, his messy hair and his windburnt neck. When he realizes he’s staring he makes a point to look away. 

Back in the foyer to the executive office, Castiel puts one of the coffee cups down on the vacant desk positioned outside Crowley’s door. The nameplate on it reads “M. Masters”. Meg, Crowley’s secretary/guard dog, is blessedly absent at the moment. Though if Castiel dropping her off coffee is any indication, she’ll probably be in soon.

Dean has a guilty epiphany. “It was _your_ coffee that I spilt.”

Castiel gives him a half-smile, evidently amused by his remorse. “It’s not a big deal. I can always steal a cup from the ladies in the typing pool.”

Dean makes a face. He’s had that coffee before. It’s a fate worse than death. “That sludge? I owe you a coffee, a _decent_ one. I’d get it for you now, but -- “

Castiel waves him off. He pulls the one remaining coffee cup out of the cardboard holder, which he tosses into the garbage can behind Meg’s desk. “Next time,” he says. He holds out his arm for Dean to pile Crowley’s laundry into.

“Yeah. Um...” Dean trails off. He’s usually much better spoken than this. Instead of continuing to fumble at the mouth, Dean pulls open the door to Crowley’s office (being careful to remain behind it -- he’s had enough of dealing with that slimeball for one night, thanks) for Castiel. Castiel nods his thanks before disappearing inside, and Dean lets the door shut behind him.

Dean wonders, briefly, what place sells the absolute best cup of coffee in Garrison City, but he shoves the thought aside. He’ll find out later. Right now he needs to plan his pitch to Naomi, and he can’t allow himself to be distracted.

\---

Only a couple of hours pass before Dean’s trudging home in defeat. It’s late enough that the streets have emptied out a bit, and just cool enough that his breath is clouding in front of his face in frustrated puffs. Dean had never had much dealing with Naomi, the Ledger being a smaller paper than the Hound -- and as such offering smaller payouts per article -- but he never expected her to turn down his story because it “promoted vigilantism.” The idea that a newspaper would turn down a story based on personal moral bias actually disgusts Dean more than Crowley’s sniveling cowtowing to Alistair. 

He’s got to make some money soon, though. He’d wasted time on the Avenging Angel story that Crowley had asked for, and now it’s apparently not even going to be able to sell. He could try taking it to The Trickster, but they pay even less than the Ledger. He hates seeing his writing sandwiched between alien abduction stories and society gossip, but rent’s due soon, and he likes to try to send his brother a little cash as well. Sam’ll bitch and moan, but Dean knows living ain’t cheap at that fancy lawyering school of his, and he likes to help where he can.

He’s not really paying attention, so if he notices the streetlight out by the narrow alley between two derelict flophouses, he doesn’t think anything of it. Later, when he thinks of this moment, he’ll be ashamed of just how unexpecting he is when he’s roughly yanked into the shadows of the alley. The shock of it sends his heart pounding, adrenaline lighting up all his reflexes. He thrashes with all his might, but the man holds firm, keeping Dean’s arms pinned to his sides. That’s when Dean feels the sharp edge of a knife at his throat.

“Give me your wallet.”

It’s almost laughable how badly this guy’s barking up the wrong tree. Dean hopes he doesn’t get his throat cut out of spite when he finds out Dean’s only packing five dollars, a condom that’s been in his wallet so long it’s probably no good, and a couple of tattered photos.

“In my back pocket,” Dean says. He’s beginning to segue from shocked into angry. The mugger has Dean’s back firmly against his chest. Dean’s no weakling, but the guy feels huge. He shifts just enough that Dean can snake his hand into the back pocket of his trousers. Dean’s had the wallet for so long that it’s kind of flat, molded to the curve of his asscheek. 

It also contains the only picture Dean has of his parents. And that’s what spurs him to lie and say, “Sorry, I can’t get it out. It’s stuck.”

The man inhales harshly, but before he can actually speak Dean is thrown forward. At first he thinks it’s the mugger who does it, but as he catches himself with his hands against the opposite wall of the alley he gets a glimpse of a tan trench coat out of the corner of his eye. Dean turns to look, and in the blue near-dark a man who can only be the Avenging Angel has Dean’s assailant held with an arm around his neck in a chokehold, opposite arm bending the guy’s knife-hand back viciously. Dean hears something snap in the man’s wrist before the knife actually drops. With the weapon on the ground, the Avenging Angel applies pressure to the mugger’s throat until he goes limp. It’s only then that he turns his attention to Dean. “Are you injured?” 

Dean snaps his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized it had been hanging open. “No.”

It’s too dark for Dean to make out much detail, but he sees the Angel produce a length of rope from somewhere in his coat.

“You’re the Angel,” Dean says. 

The Angel doesn’t answer, but he _does_ make extremely quick work of tying up the unconscious man at his feet before and sprinting off down the alley before Dean can react.

“Hey! Wait!” Dean takes off after him. The Angel’s _fast_ , but if Dean Winchester’s big mouth has ever done anything for him, it’s to ensure that he can really move his feet when he needs to. He’s able to pace the Angel for half a block -- the man has just enough of a lead on him that he tries to ditch Dean by taking a sharp turn onto a side street and immediately darting down another dark alley. If he hadn’t caught a flash of that tan trench coat again, disappearing around the corner, the maneuver might have even worked. As it is, the Angel is climbing the fire escape to the roof of one of the buildings when Dean catches up.

Dean jumps as high as he can, grabs the Angel by his tactically disadvantageous coat, and pulls as hard.

The Angel lose his grip on the ladder and crashes back into Dean, knocking them both to the pavement with a grunt. He recovers quickly, but Dean’s just as quick and also knows a thing or two about wrestling. He uses the Angel’s own momentum to pull him back down -- the Angel lands on his back with one arm pinned awkwardly behind him, and Dean pins him down by sitting on his chest. The Angel flails at him with his free arm, and Dean does the first thing he thinks of -- he pops him in the nose. 

“Ow!” the Angel yells. “This isn’t a very good thank you for saving your life.” His voice is a low, pleasant rumble that Dean can’t let himself be pleased by right now.

“Thank you,” Dean says, even though he’s pretty sure he could’ve gotten out of the situation by himself. Honestly, he’s not sure what to do now that he’s sitting on 180 pounds of angry vigilante. He hadn’t thought this far ahead -- he hadn’t really been thinking at all.

This alley is a little better lit than the previous one, the street light at the corner having not been knocked out. It provides enough sallow yellow light for Dean to make out the sharp cut of the Angel’s jaw, and the edge of the domino mask that obscures his face. It’s the same instinct that drove Dean to chase the Angel down that makes him reach down and trace the corner of the Angel’s mask with his fingers.

The Angel jerks his head to the side harshly. “NO!”

Dean yanks his hand away like he’s been scalded. He hadn’t been about to take it off. Really. He isn’t actually sure _what_ he was about to do. “I-- I wasn’t--.” He clears his throat and pulls himself together, plastering on his best cocky grin. “Sorry about that. How about an interview?”

The growling sound that erupts from the man beneath him is actually kind of off-putting. Suddenly, Dean finds himself lifted up and propelled backward until he’s pinned against the cold brick wall, the Angel’s angry mug just inches from his own face. 

Since instinct’s been working so well for him so far, and because Dean’s kind of an idiot, he goes with his first impulse, which is to lean forward and catch the Angel’s -- whoa, soft -- lips with his own. The Angel doesn’t move. He remains rigid against Dean, his grip unyielding. Dean’s not really into the idea of kissing someone who doesn’t want to be kissed, so he ends it quickly, pulling away to look at the Angel’s face. He can see him a little better from this angle, the glow of the streetlight illuminating half his face. Dean’s eyes sweep down to lips that look just as plush as they’d just felt, if a bit chapped, stubbled cheeks, and the domino mask, under which Dean can see a coat of grease obscuring the skin around his eyes, which are blue blue blue. Dean’s positive he’d remember seeing eyes that vivid if he passed them on the street. No one has eyes like that.

The Angel stares at him, studies Dean as Dean studies him, and the moment hangs with Dean still pinned to the wall like a butterfly. “You’re... very strange,” the Angel says finally. 

Dean barely has time to smirk before the Angel’s lips are back on his and Dean’s brain skids to a halt. The kiss is a little awkward, hard and harsh and, Dean bets, kind of inexperienced. Their teeth bump before Dean can open his mouth properly. For all the force behind the Angel’s lips, the arms pinning Dean’s shoulders relax, melting into something more like an embrace.

It’s a little new for Dean, too. He’s thought about this before -- men, that is -- but he’s always been able to push the idea away as something inappropriate. He’s always been able to redirect himself. He realizes he’s been thinking about the Angel a lot lately. Quite a lot. It’s been something of a preoccupation. He already knew his... _support_ for the Angel’s activities was unprofessional, but maybe it’s even less professional than he’d believed.

But that’s stupid. It’s not like Dean _knew_ the Angel at all, aside from the descriptions he’d gleaned from his interviews. All he knew were the basics -- white male, dark brown hair, about six feet tall -- and that he spent his evenings protecting the people of Garrison City, doing the job that the police couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Dean knew that the Angel had all but _shut down_ the Heaven Hill mob, and --

Oh. Oh shit. It’s a crush. Dean has a _crush_.

A crush who’s pressing against him from stomach to thigh. A crush who’s kissing him like he’s desperate for it, his hot wet mouth greedily giving Dean all he’s got, and all Dean can do is stay there and take it. Finally, the Angel pulls away, and Dean goes to say -- actually, he’s not sure what he’s going to say, but before he can worry about it the Angel’s mouth comes back down on his neck, just under his ear, and the only sound that comes out of Dean is a surprised little “ _hnnng!_ ” noise which is way too much like a whimper for him to be entirely comfortable with.

Dean really should say something. Anything. But. The Angel -- the freaking Angel who he’s been obsessing about for weeks -- is sucking on his _neck_ and goddammit, he’s not going to fuck this up. Damn his story to hell; Dean will sleep in the streets before he stops this now.

Dean manages to shake off his stupor and reach forward, pulling the angel by his ugly trenchcoat because more of them will be touching that way. Touching is good. Dean thinks he can feel the Angel’s erection against him, but he’s not entirely sure -- who knows what kind of stuff someone who does what he does might have in their pockets. As a journalist, it’s Dean’s _job_ to get to the bottom of this kind of thing, and it’s in that spirit that he hooks his calf behind the Angel’s knees and pulls so that his groin is flush against the juncture of his own, now slightly parted, legs. 

If Dean wasn’t already getting a _much_ better idea of what was in the Angel’s trousers, then the absolutely sinful groan that the Angel’s only half-able to muffle against Dean’s neck would be all the confirmation Dean needs. He takes the initiative and undulates his hips, moving against the Angel in a slow, dirty grind. 

“How’s this for a thank you?” Dean husks. It’s meant to sound cocky, but it comes out wrecked.

The Angel goes still against him. “Is that what this is? A thank you?”

Aw hell. Dean moves his hand from where it’s resting on the Angel’s hip and skims it up his back, over the trench coat to play with the soft, sweat damp hair at the nape of the Angel’s neck. “No,” Dean answers honestly. “I don’t know what this is. I... um. I don’t normally do this.”

“Me either,” the Angel mutters. His breath warm against the coldness of the drying saliva on Dean’s neck. The simple sensation makes something sharp quiver in Dean’s stomach.

The Angel pulls away a bit, and Dean quashes his disappointment as he braces himself to let go. He’s relieved when the Angel only pulls away enough to reposition his arms so that one is on Dean’s hip and the other is bracing himself against the brick wall Dean’s leaning against. He catches Dean’s mouth with his own and resumes moving against him. With better leverage, the Angel takes control of the rhythm, leaving Dean helpless as the warm pressure against his groin drives him a little higher with every slow thrust.

He’s panting against the Angel’s mouth -- the quality of the kissing, though still a little sloppy, is much improved by the better position. A slight shift in the angle of the Angel’s hips drags an embarrassingly loud moan out of Dean.

He could probably come just from this. The hand on Dean’s belt is stroking back and forth in a way that feels like a question.

Dean answers by reaching between them and one-handedly undoing his own belt buckle.

He thinks he feels the Angel smile against his mouth before a strong, calloused hand pulls his dick out into the night air, which, despite being chilly, isn’t quite cold enough to make him go soft -- especially with the Angel’s hand drawing up his shaft in a first, firm stroke. Dean groans and thunks his head back against the brick. He’s never been particularly vocal in the sack, but now he can’t seem to shut up. The first few pulls of the Angel’s hand are a little too dry to be comfortable, but after a few passes Dean’s leaking cockhead has slicked the channel of the Angel’s hand enough that fucking into it fees _glorious_. It’s a basic, no-frills handjob, but it's the best thing Dean’s ever felt, especially as the Angel’s hand gains speed.

The Angel pulls his mouth away so that he can watch Dean’s face. He’s only a couple of inches away, and Dean feels just as pinned by his gaze as he had by his arms earlier. Dean’s sure he’s wearing the _most_ fuck stupid expression on his face, but he’s powerless to stop the desperate little “ah-ah-ah”’s that keep escaping his mouth.

The sensations are climbing to a peak, and Dean manages to gasp out, “Close, I’m close,” maybe a millisecond before his orgasm sweeps over him. He actually shouts, knees buckling, as his cock spits all over the Angel’s hand and onto his shirt. The Angel’s hand slows and gentles, coaxing him through his climax until Dean gets too sensitive and stops him with a clumsy swat to his arm.

In the distance a siren wails.

The Angel groans, blue eyes closing behind his mask. “I have to go.” He steps back, drawing a handkerchief from somewhere inside his coat and using it to clean Dean’s come off his hand.

“But. Um.” Dean’s still breathing like he’s just run a marathon. He makes a vague gesture at the Angel’s crotch. “You didn’t.”

The Angel gives a terse smile. “Some other time.”

And that sounds distressingly like one of those things people just _say_ , as opposed to a genuine declaration of intent. “Yes. Please. I _owe_ you one.” Dean wavers, a little unsure of how far he wants to push, but ultimately decides fuck it. It’s not like he’s got anything to lose. “If we see each other again, we could even get a bed involved.”

The Angel hesitates, and Dean’s flirtatious smile falters. He’s relieved that what the Angel says next is unrelated to Dean’s awkward invite.

“Alistair Stambaugh... he wasn’t alone. Look for Ruby Genovese. By the Berens Bay docks.”

And then the Angel is gone, sprinting off into the night in a blur of tan. This time Dean lets him go.

\---

Two weeks later finds Dean back in the offices of the Daily Hound, with a song in his heart and a cup of criminally expensive coffee in his hand. Better late than never he figures. In his defense, things have happened quickly the last couple of weeks.

Ruby Genovese, being something of a crook, wasn’t a great source for an article, but she gave him enough information that he was able to track down others -- mostly women, but not all -- who’d been assaulted by Alistair Stambaugh, and he’d managed to compile one hell of an exposé. It seemed as though the owner of the Daily Hound was something of a sadist, one who didn’t respond well to the word “no”.

It’d turned out to be exactly the kind of article that appealed to Naomi at the Ledger. It probably hadn’t hurt that the story would potentially be taking down the owner of her biggest competitor.

When Dean reaches Crowley’s offices, he sees that Meg Masters is at her desk today. Castiel’s with her, leaning over her shoulder to study the paper she’s holding.

Meg notices him first. “Dean Winchester,” she drawls. “Hell really does hath no fury. Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Meg. I’m pretty sure that ship sailed years ago.” Dean turns his attention to Castiel. “Hi. I, um. I got you that coffee.”

Castiel smiles, and his face lights up. “Thank you, Dean. You really didn’t have to.”

Dean hands over the cup that’s been scalding his hand for two blocks. “Yeah, but I wanted to.” He nods his head toward Crowley’s office. “The big man in?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Meg asks primly.

Dean glares at her.

Meg sniffs. “Yes, he’s in. In a good mood, too. He was never a big fan of Alistair.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone was.”

“What brings you here, Dean?” Castiel asks.

“Aside from your coffee? After the Alistair story broke, Naomi offered me a staff position with the Ledger.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I’m here because I want to give Crowley a chance to match it.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “But you hate Crowley.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m not his biggest fan, no. But I like it here better than the Ledger. This is the better paper.” And, he tells himself, it has nothing to do with the fact that the Ledger is so unsympathetic to the Angel, the vigilante who he hasn’t seen since he gave him a steamy back-alley handjob, and yet can’t seem to stop thinking about. Nor does it have anything to do with the attractive PA who’s currently watching him with a small, fond smile.

Dean wishes Castiel would take a sip of his coffee, so that he can see if he likes it. 

Meg, who for a moment Dean’d forgot was even there, picks up the receiver of her phone and presses a button. “Dean Winchester’s here to see you.”

Dean doesn’t hear Crowley’s reply, but Meg puts the receiver down and motions to the door. “Go on in.”

“Wish me luck,” Dean says to Castiel, winking.

“Good luck.”

 

To be continued...


End file.
